


Thunder Road

by ridiculously



Series: Whole Lotta Love [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Bisexual Dean, Dry Humping, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Impala Makeouts, Insurance Salesman Castiel, Interrupting Sam, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Past Balthazar/Castiel, Singer Salvage Yard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:42:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2249523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridiculously/pseuds/ridiculously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel had received Bobby Singer's business card from the Sheriff who'd pulled him over earlier that week.</p><p>"He's got some kid working for him who can fix anything they throw his way."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thunder Road

Castiel had received Bobby Singer's business card from the Sheriff who'd pulled him over earlier that week. Sheriff Mills had been exceptionally polite, explaining to Castiel that while a smoking tailpipe might technically be street legal, busted brake lights were in fact not. Her warm brown eyes had taken in Castiel's messy hair, the collection of travel mugs littering the passenger seat, and the general dilapidation of his '88 Volvo wagon, and she'd sighed sympathetically.

"Look," she'd said, "I'm going to have to ticket you for the brake lights. Sorry, kiddo. But I think I know a guy who could do a number on a car like this. And pretty cheap, too."

Castiel, knowing absolutely nothing about car maintenance or repairs, had nodded and accepted the business card Sheriff Mills pulled out of her notebook. "Thank you," he'd said.

"No problem. His name's Bobby. Bobby Singer. He's got some kid working for him who can fix anything they throw his way. He'd probably love to get a hold of this thing. Tell 'em Jody sent ya."

Castiel had mumbled his thanks again, looking down at the card in his hand. _Singer Salvage_ , it read, _Ask About Our Hunters' Discount_.

So, three days later, Castiel pulled through the wrought iron gate of Singer Salvage Yard trailing a noxious cloud of smoke behind his Volvo. He parked in front of what appeared to be the garage; though with the yard littered with stacks upon stacks of rusted, crushed cars, it was hard to tell what, if any, repair work took place there. He hoped his car wasn't about to end up atop one of the piles.

A bell clanked against the door as Castiel came into the shop. Loud music, a high pitched man's voice singing about rambling on, came from a decrepit stereo. Another man's voice, this one low, rough as thunder clouds, and seemingly attached to the pair of bow legs bent under the hood of a car in the dock, sang along. If this man's voice was slightly out of tune, Castiel didn't particularly notice. The legs in front of him were covered in loose-fitting denim, grease stains and frayed holes dotting the material. The ass at the top of those legs was round, like two globes carved from stone, and it shook back and forth to the beat.

Castiel licked his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth was.

He turned at the sound of the bell clanking again and was confronted with a bearded man in a backwards cap and Singer Salvage t-shirt that might have fit him 20 years and 40 pounds ago.

"Hey there," the man said, voice friendly and rolling like the South Dakota prairies. He looked over Castiel's shoulder to address the pair of legs still bent over the other car. "Dean! We got a customer, boy. How many times I gotta tell you, that dang music of yours is too loud."

The mechanic, Dean, apparently, straightened up and turned around. "Bobby, come on. I don't bug you about turning down Willie Nelson when "Always on My Mind" comes on. Why you gotta bitch at me to turn down my favorite song?" He turned shockingly green eyes on Castiel. "Honestly, who doesn't like Zep, am I right?" Dean winked conspiratorially at Castiel.

"Um, what exactly is a Zep?" Castiel asked, too distracted by the mechanic's well-muscled and tattoo covered arms to form coherent thoughts.

The wrench Dean was holding clanged noisily to the ground. "'What exactly is a Zep?'" He repeated, incredulous. "Led Zeppelin? Ramble On? Black Dog? Stairway to mother fucking Heaven?"

"Alright, enough boy. Stop antagonizing the customers, Dean." The bearded man, Bobby presumably, held out his hand to Castiel. "I'm Bobby, Bobby Singer. What can I do ya for?"

"My car. I'm not sure what's wrong with it, but it seems to be giving off quite a bit of smoke," Castiel replied helpfully.

"Whaddya driving?" Bobby asked.

Dean, who had thrown his hands in the air and walked outside at Bobby's chastising, poked his head in through the door. "An '88 Volvo 240 DL Wagon. Jesus Christ. How is this thing even still running?"

Bobby and Castiel followed Dean outside to inspect the car. "To be fair, it's only barely running. I was pulled over the other day for broken brake lights. I'm told the problem with the tail pipe is technically not illegal, but it seemed wisest to fix everything," Castiel said. "The sheriff who pulled me over said she thought you guys could help. Jody, I think her name was."

Dean and Bobby shared a look. "Good old Sheriff Mills," Dean laughed.

Bobby turned a faint shade of plum and cleared his throat. "Yeah, hmm, well. I think Dean here can handle a little fixer upper like this." He pointed over into the yard where a shiny, black land shark of a car sat winking in the afternoon sun. "Dean dragged that Impala back from Hell after his daddy crashed it. Shoulda seen the thing, all mangled and busted. Now look at it. I'm thinkin' he'll have your Volvo taken care of in no time."

Castiel handed over his keys and took a seat in the waiting room, such as it was. Through the viewing window, he watched Dean pull his Volvo into the open bay. As he worked, Castiel noticed the subtle flex and pull of Dean's muscles under his t-shirt. The way certain colors stood out on his tattooed arms: purples here, deep greens there, a long streak of orange and red creeping out from under the sleeve on his right triceps. Castiel wondered what, if anything, they meant. Where they started. Where they ended.

Castiel licked his lips. Dean was handsome and it had been a long time since Castiel had gotten laid. He'd thought about calling Balthazar recently. But they hadn't had regular contact since college and Castiel wasn't particularly interested in getting embroiled in Balthazar's inevitably dramatic life. Besides, he'd gotten tired of their casual flings. Castiel was only 24, but still, he thought, what was so wrong with wanting a warm body to come home to every day? The same warm body, day in and day out. He wanted someone he could cook dinner for, someone he could share a toothbrush with without getting the icks, someone he could smother with a pillow when he snored too loudly but who would still wake up smiling in the morning. He wanted familiarity. He wanted to settle down.

Mind wandering, Castiel missed Dean waving at him through the viewing window. When Dean knocked on the glass to beckon him into the garage, Castiel jumped.

"Hey man," Dean said, "I hate to spring this on you, but I think I'm going to need some time on this baby. The brake lights are an easy fix, but it looks like the smoke's coming from a malfunction in your carburetor. Until I really get a chance to play around under the hood, I don't even know what parts we'll need to order. A car like this, we don't just keep spares out back, you know?"

"Ah," Castiel said. "Yeah, of course. Would you happen to have the number of a cab company?"

"Sure, man. Bobby has a couple pals who double as cabbies," Dean scratched the back of his head and looked at Castiel intently. His eyes seemed to move subconsciously to Castiel's lips before bee-lining back up to his eyes. "You don't have anyone who could swing by to get you? Friends? Family? Sig oth?"

Castiel tilted his head at Dean, "Sig oth? I don't think I understand that reference."

Dean chuckled. "Significant other. You know, someone who comes when you call?"

Castiel felt himself blush furiously. He would come if Dean called. But, wait. What. Castiel shook his head. "No, I don't have a sig oth. And my family is out of state."

"Well," Dean glanced at the wall clock over the door, then nodded as if he'd come to a decision. "Dude, if you don't mind hanging out here for a little while, I could take you home when I get off."

"That's very kind of you," Castiel replied. He'd grown accustomed to the kindness of strangers over the years, but even so, it still caught him off guard whenever he experienced it. "If…if you're sure it won't be too much of an inconvenience, I'd be very grateful."

"Yeah, no problem!" Dean shrugged. "One rule about riding in my car, though. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Half an hour later, Castiel slid onto the vinyl covered front seat of what was apparently a 1967 Chevy Impala. "Say hello to Baby," Dean quipped as Castiel buckled his seatbelt.

"Baby? Your car has a name?" Castiel squinted at Dean as he pulled out of the dusty garage lot, sliding on a pair of aviator sunglasses as he drove.

"'Course she has a name." Dean patted the dashboard. "Hey, I never got yours, by the way. Mine's Dean, but you probably got that from all of Bobby's bitching." He laughed good-naturedly, clearly not offended by his boss.

"Hello, Dean," Castiel said. "I'm Castiel. It's nice to meet you. Officially."

"Castiel, huh?" Dean asked. Castiel was sure he was about to ask what his name meant, but instead, Dean looked over at him and smiled, warm and friendly. "Good to meet you, man."

Castiel's apartment was on the other side of Sioux Falls, on Wall Lake. Dean knew how to get to the general area, he said, but Castiel would have to get him to the right street. Dean pushed a tape into the deck and the Impala was filled with a piano and a hungry growl. "Tell me you at least know The Boss?" He asked.

"I'm not sure. What's he the boss of?" Castiel smiled at Dean, taken by the way his fingers seemed to tap the steering wheel of their own accord.

"Hah, Cas--I'm gonna call you Cas, k?--you're hilarious." Dean sang along absentmindedly, his whole body taking up the beat in subtle ways. He was wildly attractive, Castiel thought, cast in the reddish glow of early sunset, light reflecting off his sunglasses and highlighting the seemingly infinite freckles on his cheeks. "Downnnnn in junglelandddddd," he sang, a little off key, but so enthusiastic, Castiel found himself wishing he knew the words, too.

"So, Cas, you said your family was out of state. How'd you end up in Sioux Falls?" Dean flipped the tape over when the song came to an end. This time, a harmonica joined the piano and Castiel thought he might recognize this Springsteen song.

"My father owns an insurance company; one of the biggest in the Midwest, actually. I, uh, I do sales for most of South Dakota and Iowa. That's why there're so many miles on my car," Castiel said, somewhat self-consciously. He'd never really grown into the family business the way his father had expected him to.

"I guess that explains the trenchcoat," Dean said lightly, somehow easing the awkwardness Castiel felt about himself.

Dean opted against taking 90 West ("It'll be a shitshow at this hour."), so they drove the two lane roads north of Sioux Falls, chasing the sun west towards Wall Lake, and talking over Springsteen's New Jersey wail. They talked about Castiel's job (boring); Bobby's shop ("Been changing oil there since I was sixteen"), Castiel's family ("Don't get me started on Gabriel, the last time I saw him he glued all my quarters to the floor of my apartment"); whether cheeseburgers were better eaten with Cherry Cokes or vanilla milkshakes (Dean voted milkshake, Castiel insisted on Cherry Coke); why Led Zeppelin II was actually far superior to Led Zeppelin IV ("Everyone knows 'Stairway to Heaven', Cas, but give me 'Ramble On' and 'Whole Lotta Love' any day"); and when 'Born to Run' poured through the speakers, Castiel perked up. "Hey, I think I know this song!"

Dean gave Castiel's shoulder a jovial punch that set warmth traversing down his arm. "Of course you know this song. Everyone knows 'Born to Run'. Might've been overplayed in its day, but there's a reason songs like this climb the charts, you know?"

Castiel had the sense that Dean was sincerely asking for his opinion on rock and roll, but the only answer he could supply was, "Well, it's a relateable song. The lyrics are simple enough, but there's something sad and lonely about it, too. I think more people identify with that sense of isolation than they care to admit. So the Boss puts it to music and suddenly it's okay to want to pack up and skip town." He shrugged as he turned to face Dean. He'd pushed his aviators up to his forehead and Castiel saw that his mossy green eyes were flecked with gold. Dean was looking at Castiel with...if he didn't know better, Castiel would have described it as fondness.

"Exactly," he said, but before he could continue, his voice was drowned out by a roll of thunder that startled them both. "Shit, man, I didn't know it was supposed to storm tonight." Dean surveyed the horizon, the red of the sunset suddenly eclipsed by a massive purple and gray thunderhead. Seconds later, the rain started. "This better not turn into hail. I don't want to have to give Baby another paint job."

Curious about the car, Castiel hedged, "Bobby said this car was in pretty bad shape before you fixed it up."

Dean's shoulders stiffened minutely, and his jaw ticked a few times, as though he was grinding his teeth on his reply. "She was my dad's. 'Til he wrapped her around a telephone pole. Killed himself and my mom in the process."

Castiel was horrified. "Dean, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"Hey, it's no worries, Cas. It was a long time ago." Dean relaxed and his smile, if a little forced, showed Castiel that no harm had been done. "Which turn do I take for your place?"

The rain continued to pound against the Impala's roof as Dean navigated the darkening streets. They pulled into the driveway of the tiny dual-family Castiel rented as a crack of lightning illuminated the Lake beyond the house. Castiel hunched his shoulders around his neck in anticipation of the pending thunder. The front door was mere yards from the car, but Castiel was reluctant to leave its sanctuary. To leave Dean and his tattoos and his green eyes and his classic rock and his open, soft smile.

Castiel turned to thank Dean, to tell him goodbye, but he stopped short. Dean's brow was furrowed and he licked his full, rosebud lips when Castiel turned to him. "You should give me your number," Dean blurted, seemingly without meaning to. "You know, so I can let you know when your car's ready," he elaborated. His face was the color of ripe tomatoes, and Castiel wanted to see if Dean's skin was as warm as he imagined it.

Castiel dabbed his bottom lip with his tongue and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yeah, okay," he mumbled. Dean pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and Castiel rattled off his numbers. "Thank you very much for the ride, Dean."

Castiel turned to open the passenger door, but Dean's hand on his wrist stopped him. Castiel met his eyes and suddenly Dean was on him: His hands clenching Castiel's trenchcoat; his lips, soft and pliant as rose petals, exploring Castiel's. Castiel melted into him, too taken aback by the change of direction to question it. Instead, he rose to the moment and embraced Dean fiercely. His hands roamed the broad plain of Dean's back, skimmed against the soft bristles of his hairline. His lips moved of their own accord, tongue begging for access against Dean's lower lip.

Dean responded eagerly, opening his mouth and rolling his tongue against Castiel's. Dean's breath was warm and he smelled like motor oil and sweat. Castiel licked into his mouth hungrily, forgetting the storm and his car and his father's business. He laughed into Dean's mouth when his head came in contact with the window crank. Dean tried to pull away, but Castiel pressed himself farther down against the vinyl bench seat, allowing Dean to sink on top of him. Dean's thigh was wedged between Castiel's, but there was no pressure, no force behind it. He held himself like he were trying to prevent Castiel from being crushed. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean's neck and dragged his full weight down on top of him.

Dean eased away, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to Castiel's lips before pulling his face back. "Cas," he said, and there it was again, something that sounded like fondness in his voice. "You're...this is okay with you?"

In answer, Castiel threaded his fingers through Dean's short hair and brought him back down into a kiss. Castiel tilted his head to gain access to Dean's jaw, working his way across his stubble and down Dean's neck. Dean gasped in response and settled his hands in Castiel's hair. "I've never fogged a car's windows before," Castiel said.

Dean's laugh vibrated through them both. "Let me show you how it's done," he said, and then talking was rendered impossible.

Their lips attached, they failed to notice the ceasing of the rain or the total darkening of the sky or the cars pulling into neighboring drives. Castiel wasn't sure he came up for air until Dean rolled his hips down against him. Castiel gasped and arched his back into Dean's movements, the heat in his belly and the strain of his dick against his fly the only sensations he acknowledged. "Dean," Castiel breathed.

Dean rolled his hips again. "Cas," he whispered, bending to suck at Castiel's earlobe. "Ugh, Cas." He sucked at Castiel's neck, tongue following after to soothe the bite. Castiel slid his hands down his back to Dean's ass and pulled his hips forward. Their erections grazed each other through denim and khaki and Castiel shuddered at the contact. Dean's lips found his again and they became an endless tangle of limbs and tongues and movement, sighing each other's names with each rock and roll of their hips.

Castiel felt a vibration against the front of his thigh and Dean pulled back, confusion evident on his face. But then he pawed through his pocket and dug out his cell phone. "Ughh, damnit, I'm really sorry, Cas, I gotta get this."

Castiel accepted the interruption with poor grace. He locked his legs around Dean's waist and held him in place on top of him. Dean rolled his eyes, but smiled at him nonetheless as he accepted the call.

"Sammy, hey man!" Dean said. "Yeah, yeah, you dick, you have the worst timing ever." Castiel heard the voice on the other end say something that sounded like, "Am I interrupting?"

Dean laughed, but hissed his breath out when Castiel rocked his hips upwards. "No, Sammy, it's uh, yeah, it's just...Look man, I'll call you later, okay?" He didn't wait for a response from the other end before he hung up and dropped the cell phone on the floorboards.

"You dick," Dean said without malice. He grinned and leaned down to kiss Castiel firmly.

Dean pulled away and sat up slowly, pulling Castiel upright with him. "Who's Sammy?"

"Sam," Dean corrected. "My dumbass little brother. He's at Stanford. I swear, the kid's got a sixth sense. He's always calling me when I'm otherwise engaged. It's like he _knows_ and just has to bust up my game."

"Please, you call that game?" Castiel teased. "What game?"

Castiel squeaked in response to the overly familiar hand suddenly latched on to his still hard, but softening dick. "'What game?' What do you call this?" Dean's eyes were lit like emeralds in firelight, round, and wide with lust. Castiel shivered.

"Ugh, I'm gonna kill Sam next time I see him," Dean whined, leaning his forehead against Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel glanced at the dashboard clock. "Fuck! I didn't realize it was so late. I have a sales call at 6:00 tomorrow morning. Six a.m.! Who needs to buy insurance that early in the morning?"

Dean looked equally appalled. "Not me, man."

"Dean," Castiel said, "Thank you very much for the drive home."

"Just the drive?" Dean winked, but his expression was tinged with disappointment.

In response, Castiel leaned in and placed a soft, lingering kiss against Dean's mouth. "Call me, Dean. Maybe even before my car is ready," Castiel added as he stepped out of the Impala, feeling bold and brash and intoxicatingly hopeful.


End file.
